Burn for You by J.T. Geissinger

2017

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Author:	J.T. Geissinger
Genre:	Contemporary Romance
File Name:	burn-for-you-by-j-t-geissinger.epub
Original Title:	Burn for You (Slow Burn Book 1)
Creator:	J.T. Geissinger
Language:	en
Identifier:	ISBN:9781542047456
Publisher:	Montlake Romance
Date:	1508169600
File Size:	881153.024

The marriage is fake. But for a sassy chef and an arrogant billionaire, the sparks are real…

Jackson “The Beast” Boudreaux is rich, gorgeous, and unbelievably rude to the staff at Chef Bianca Hardwick’s New Orleans restaurant. Bianca would sooner douse herself in hot sauce than cook for Jackson again, but when he asks her to cater his fund-raiser, Bianca can’t refuse, knowing the cash will help pay her mother’s medical bills. Then Jackson makes another outrageous request: Marry me. The unconventional offer includes an enormous sum—money Bianca desperately needs, even if it does come with a contract—and a stunning ring.
The heir to a family bourbon dynasty, Jackson knows the rumors swirling around him. The truth is even darker. Still, he needs a wife to secure his inheritance, and free-spirited, sassy Bianca would play the part beautifully. Soon, though, their simple business deal evolves into an emotional intimacy he’s built walls to avoid.

As the passion heats up between them, Bianca and Jackson struggle to define which feelings are real and which are for show. Is falling for your fake fiancé the best happy ending…or a recipe for disaster?

Table of Content

1. Unnamed
2. Also by J.T. Geissinger Bad Habit Series Sweet as Sin Make Me Sin Sin with Me Wicked Games Series Wicked Beautiful Wicked Sexy Wicked Intentions Night Prowler Series Shadow’s Edge Edge of Oblivion Rapture’s Edge Edge of Darkness Darkness Bound Into Darkness
3. Unnamed
4. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Text copyright © 2017 by J.T. Geissinger, Inc. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher. Published by Montlake Romance, Seattle www.apub.com Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Montlake Romance are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates. ISBN-13: 9781542047456 ISBN-10: 1542047455 Cover design by Letitia Hasser
5. For Jay, and twenty years of happily ever after.
6. CONTENTS ONE BIANCA TWO BIANCA THREE JACKSON FOUR BIANCA CREOLE SHRIMP AND GRITS FIVE JACKSON SIX BIANCA SEVEN BIANCA EIGHT BIANCA BIANCA’S OLD CUBAN NINE JACKSON TEN BIANCA ELEVEN BIANCA GINGER-ORANGE CHEESECAKE TWELVE BIANCA THIRTEEN JACKSON FOURTEEN BIANCA BIANCA’S BLACKBERRY & BOURBON COBBLER FIFTEEN JACKSON SIXTEEN BIANCA SEVENTEEN BIANCA EIGHTEEN JACKSON FRENCH QUARTER BEIGNETS NINETEEN BIANCA TWENTY BIANCA TWENTY-ONE BIANCA DAVINA’S FAMOUS CREOLE JAMBALAYA TWENTY-TWO BIANCA TWENTY-THREE JACKSON TWENTY-FOUR BIANCA TWENTY-FIVE BIANCA TWENTY-SIX BIANCA TWENTY-SEVEN JACKSON CREOLE OKRA GUMBO TWENTY-EIGHT BIANCA TWENTY-NINE BIANCA THIRTY BIANCA THIRTY-ONE JACKSON THIRTY-TWO BIANCA THIRTY-THREE JACKSON BLOODY DIXIE THIRTY-FOUR BIANCA THIRTY-FIVE JACKSON THIRTY-SIX BIANCA THIRTY-SEVEN BIANCA THIRTY-EIGHT JACKSON SLAP, SLAP, KISS COCKTAIL ACKNOWLEDGMENTS ABOUT THE AUTHOR
7. ONE BIANCA The first time I laid eyes on the man known throughout the state of Louisiana as “the Beast,” I thought he couldn’t possibly be as bad as his reputation. As it turned out, I was wrong. He was worse. Dressed all in black, standing a head taller than everyone else, his shoulders so broad they cast an ominous shadow over the polished wood floor, Jackson Boudreaux surveyed the bustling dining room of my restaurant with the expression of a king who’d stumbled upon a village of peasants infected with the plague. His lip was curled. His eyes were narrowed. His nose was stuck so far up in the air, I wondered if he’d come in from the rain to avoid drowning. “Hoo Lawd ! We got ourselves a loup-garou! Get the garlic!” Standing beside me at the stove in the kitchen, my sous chef, Ambrosine, made the sign of the cross over her ample chest as she peered through the glass wall at the man in black. Eeny, as she was affectionately called by everyone who knew her, was a retired voodoo prieste
8. TWO BIANCA Jackson stayed for four hours, straight through the third seating, sampling almost every damn dish on the menu, right down to two servings of blackberry-and-bourbon cobbler for dessert. He ate the same way he talked. Mechanically, as if he took no pleasure in it, like it was a nuisance, one more thing to endure in the long, joyless span of his day. Still aggravated by our interaction, I watched from the kitchen as he sat alone and wolfed down plate after plate of food, eyes lowered, ignoring all the curious looks sent his way. Stopping beside me to follow my gaze, Eeny exclaimed, “Looks like that boy hasn’t eaten in a year!” I sourly harrumphed. “Only the souls of all who’ve displeased him.” She chuckled. “I see LaDonna Quinn would like to give him somethin’ else to chew on besides your spicy baby back ribs. Lawd, that dress she’s wearin’ is so tight you can almost see her religion.” For the third time, the newly divorced brunette sashayed by Jackson’s table, hips swaying, t
9. THREE JACKSON Rayford was already waiting at the curb with the car door open when I left the restaurant. That was a good thing, because in my current mood I might have torn the fucking door right off its hinges. Seething, I climbed into the back of the Bentley. Rayford shut the door behind me without a word. When he started the car and we drove away, I couldn’t tell if I was relieved or disappointed. I’d never met such an irritating woman in my entire life. The mouth on her! The attitude! The incredible heart-shaped ass. I clenched my teeth and stared out into the rainy night. I hadn’t wanted a woman in a long time. Cricket had seen to that. After that disaster, all I could see when a woman looked at me were the dollar signs in her eyes. But this firecracker Bianca Hardwick. Christ. I wasn’t sure if I wanted to kiss that smart mouth or put a gag in it. “How was the food, sir?” asked Rayford, peering at me in the rearview mirror. Still boiling with anger, I snapped, “Adequate.” Well acc
10. FOUR BIANCA Whoever coined the phrase beauty sleep had obviously never seen me in the morning. “Damn, girl,” I said to my haggard reflection in the bathroom mirror. “Those aren’t bags under your eyes, that’s a full set of luggage.” I splashed cold water on my face, pressed a wet washcloth to my lids, and held it there for a minute, to no effect. When I opened my eyes, I looked just as bad as I did before. Serves me right for staying up into the wee hours of the morning working on a new menu. But if Jackson Boudreaux was serious about his threat to sue, I’d have to revamp everything, fast. Then I supposed I’d have to hire myself a lawyer. Stuck-up son of a lazy-eyed catfish! What little sleep I’d had was filled with nightmares about being chased from the restaurant by a pack of wolves, led by one particularly large and nasty specimen that was all sharp teeth and vicious growls, his black fur bristling as he snapped at my heels. I woke with my heart pounding, the sheets drenched in sweat
11. CREOLE SHRIMP AND GRITS Makes 4 servings 4 cups water 1 cup stone-ground grits 3 tablespoons butter 2 cups shredded sharp cheddar cheese 1 pound raw shrimp, peeled and deveined 6 slices bacon, chopped 4 teaspoons lemon juice 2 tablespoons fresh parsley, chopped 1 cup scallions, sliced 1 clove garlic, minced kosher salt freshly ground pepper Preparation In stockpot, bring water to a boil. Reduce heat to simmer, add grits, salt, and pepper, and cook until water is absorbed, about 20 minutes. Remove from heat and stir in butter and cheese. Fry the bacon in a large skillet until browned. Remove to paper towels, drain well, and chop. Rinse shrimp and pat dry. Add into bacon grease and cook until shrimp turn pink. Do not overcook. Add lemon juice, chopped bacon, parsley, scallions, and garlic, and sauté for 3 minutes. Spoon cooked grits into serving bowls. Add shrimp mixture on top. Serve immediately.
12. FIVE JACKSON The feel of her warm, full lips around the head of my cock made me moan. “Fuck yes,” I whispered, looking down at her. “Don’t stop.” Beautiful, dark eyes stared up at me as she opened her lips wider and took me down her throat. My pelvis flexed of its own will, sending my hard cock even deeper into the wet heat of her mouth. So fucking good. Christ. So good. Naked, on her knees between my legs on the bed, she wrapped one hand around my shaft while the other gently fondled my balls. I was out of my mind with pleasure. Moaning again, I cupped her head in my hands and started to slowly fuck her mouth, careful not to go too fast, timing my thrusts with the stroke of her hand, the bob of her head. When she squeezed just under the engorged crown and lingered there, sucking and licking like a kitten with a bowl of cream, a shudder ran through my body. “Oh, you like that,” she whispered playfully. “Let’s find out what else you like.” Releasing my cock, she rose and straddled my hi
13. SIX BIANCA The rest of the day passed with all my senses dulled like I was underwater. Shock, I suppose. And denial. I just couldn’t believe things were as bad as they apparently were. Stage three. It sounded more like a movie set than a diagnosis. “You all right, boo?” asked Eeny with concern when she caught me staring into space over a big pot bubbling with jambalaya at the stove. It was my mother’s recipe, the comfort food I always turned to in times of stress. The waitstaff had just eaten, as usual before the restaurant opened for dinner, and first service would soon begin, but I had no idea how I was going to make it through tonight. “I’m . . .” What? What was I? There wasn’t a word. Finally I settled on, “Fine. Just tired is all. Couldn’t sleep last night.” Chuckling, Eeny patted me on the shoulder. “That explains those bags under your eyes.” From across the kitchen, Hoyt called, “Looks like you been et by a wolf and shit over a cliff, dawlin’.” When I turned to glare at him, Een
14. SEVEN BIANCA At promptly ten o’clock the next morning, a sleek black sedan pulled up in front of my restaurant and glided to a stop at the curb. I had no idea what kind of car it was, but I knew it was fancy-schmancy. Only really expensive, snobby-rich-people show-off cars had those stupid silver ornaments sticking out of the front of the hood like a middle finger to everyone who looked at them as they drove down the street. Standing next to me at the window, Eeny said, “Your chariot awaits, boo.” Then she burst into hysterical cackles. I sighed. At Mama’s insistence, I’d told no one about her illness. Her pride wouldn’t allow her to publicly admit she was sick. Or maybe it was vanity. Either way, I’d been sworn to silence. She hadn’t even told the Colonel. So no one at the restaurant knew the real reason I accepted a job from the Beast, but they were all getting a kick out of it. Hoyt had told me yesterday that one of the line cooks had started a pool to see how long it took before I
15. EIGHT BIANCA If I thought the exterior of Rivendell was something, the interior literally had me gaping. Huge marble sculptures scattered everywhere: check. Priceless oil paintings from French and Italian masters: check. Ballroom, billiard room, indoor theatre: check, check, and check. I’d never seen anything like it. Or been inside a house so bone-chillingly cold. “I should’ve brought a sweater,” I said to Rayford as I walked beside him, shivering. Our every footstep echoed off the walls before dying into ghostly silence. I had the oddest feeling of being inside a crypt. “You get used to it,” said Rayford. “The heat’s always on, but marble’s real stubborn about warmin’ up, and this time of year we get a cold breeze comin’ off the water, which doesn’t help. The kitchen’s better.” We passed another enormous room that appeared to be a formal dining room, with a polished oak table the length of a landing strip. Then we arrived at the library, and I almost wet myself in excitement. “Holy C
16. BIANCA’S OLD CUBAN Makes 1 serving 2 ounces prosecco 1½ ounces bourbon 1 ounce simple syrup ¾ ounce fresh lime juice 2 dashes Angostura bitters fresh mint leaves to garnish Preparation Combine all ingredients except prosecco in a shaker and fill with ice. Shake vigorously to chill. Strain into a chilled coupe glass. Top with prosecco and garnish with mint. Simple Syrup Preparation Combine 1 cup sugar and 1 cup water in saucepan and bring to a boil, stirring until sugar is dissolved. Remove from heat. Store leftovers in airtight container in the refrigerator for up to two weeks.
17. NINE JACKSON My father once told me the only difference between a woman and a man-eating shark was the size of their teeth. At the time I’d agreed with him. I’d had good reason to. But watching Bianca Hardwick move gracefully around my kitchen, making us lunch while chatting animatedly with Charlie and interacting with Cody as if she’d known him since birth, made me think that might have been too harsh a judgment. And no shark on earth had an ass like Bianca’s. Besides being a fucking masterpiece of design, the damn thing was an eyeball magnet. I’d already caught myself half a dozen times ogling it, my dick twitching under my zipper like some horny teenager’s. Even those hideous brown work pants she favored that looked like they were made from old potato sacks couldn’t diminish its appeal. It was so round, like an apple. So taut and smooth. I wanted to bend her over the stool, yank those pants down her hips, and sink my teeth into it. I wanted to squeeze it and kiss it and stroke it an
18. TEN BIANCA The first thing I did after Rayford dropped me off at the restaurant was hustle over to the bank to deposit Jackson’s check into my mama’s account. We’d scheduled her initial round of chemo for a few days away, and I didn’t want to take any chances that Jackson, in one of his inexplicable beastie moods, would put a stop payment on the check. With that done, I felt better. Until I ran smack into my ex in the bank’s parking lot. Literally into him. The noise I made when I collided with his chest was something so unladylike my mama would’ve pitched a hissy fit if she’d heard it. It was part grunt, part groan, and part something that sounded like it shot out of my butthole on a hot burst of air, excuse my French. Hands flailing, I dropped my pocketbook on the ground and stumbled back in surprise. “Whoa!” A pair of strong hands gripped my upper arms to steady me. “Easy, girl. I know I’m handsome as sin, but there’s no need to throw yourself at me.” I looked up—and there he was. T
19. ELEVEN BIANCA By the time Jackson’s charity benefit rolled around, I was jumpy as a cat on a hot tin roof. Doc Halloran had told us what to expect in the way of side effects of the chemo, but neither Mama nor I was prepared for the reality of it. She felt fine for the first few days, and then everything kicked in with one big wallop. The nausea and vomiting were the least of it. She also had massive headaches, frightful mouth sores, and fatigue so bad she could hardly get out of bed. I went with her every day to the hospital for the first week, then helped out at the house during the second, trying to get her to eat and fielding all her callers, turning them away with excuses that she had the flu. Even the poor Colonel wasn’t allowed inside. Mama didn’t have the energy to put on her face and pretend, so away he went, shoulders slumped. I didn’t think it was right she didn’t tell him what was really going on, but it wasn’t my place to make that decision. But most of all, I dreaded what
20. GINGER-ORANGE CHEESECAKE Makes 8 servings 1½ cups graham cracker crumbs ⅓ cup butter, melted ⅓ cup white sugar 32 ounces cream cheese, softened ⅔ cup white sugar, plus 2 tablespoons 1 cup sour cream, divided 1 tablespoon grated orange peel 4 eggs 2 cups clementine wedges ½ cup finely chopped crystallized ginger Preparation Preheat oven to 325 degrees. Mix graham cracker crumbs, butter, and ⅓ cup sugar together. Press on bottom of 9² x 3² springform pan and just enough up sides to seal bottom. Place cream cheese, ⅔ cup sugar, ½ cup sour cream, and orange peel in food processor. Cover and process about 3 minutes or until smooth. Add eggs. Cover and process until well blended. Spread over crust. Bake 1 hour 20 minutes, or until center is set. Cool on wire rack for 15 minutes. Using spatula around edges to loosen, remove side of pan. Refrigerate uncovered 3 hours or until chilled, then cover and continue refrigerating at least 4 hours, but not longer than 48 hours. Mix ½ cup sour cream and
21. TWELVE BIANCA Though I wanted to turn and bolt, I didn’t. The man had paid me an obscene amount of money for this job, after all. And I was a professional. I wouldn’t embarrass him in front of all his guests by refusing his request. Also, I was intrigued by this new Jackson, this well-dressed stranger who spoke so eloquently about honor and selflessness and used words like please. I didn’t think that word was in his vocabulary. So it was with curiosity—and a healthy dose of embarrassment—that I walked around the perimeter of the tables and climbed the few stairs to the stage. Then shock took over as Jackson wound his arm around my shoulders, pulled me against his side, and smiled down at me. I was too busy trying not to keel over in surprise to pay much attention to how perfectly I fit under his arm, how snugly I nestled against the solid bulk of his body. How hard he was, all over. I’m definitely hallucinating. Or Jackson Boudreaux has a twin no one knows about. A twin that had three
22. THIRTEEN JACKSON “I should be going,” Bianca said abruptly, sounding like she just remembered she’d left the stove on at home. I stopped dead in my tracks, disappointment cutting through me like knives. I’d mistaken her look for one of lust. I’d obviously been projecting my own feelings onto her, because judging by her wide-eyed, panicked look at my approach, I’d seriously miscalculated what was happening here. She was just being nice, while I was being a creepy, pervy, wildly inappropriate douchebag who couldn’t keep his boner in his pants. What a fucking idiot. “Of course,” I said, mortified. “It’s late. I won’t keep you.” Blood pounded in my temples. I stepped back quickly, dragged a hand through my hair, and took a steadying breath. Bianca said, “Rayford was supposed to drive me home, but I haven’t—” “I’ll take you!” It was out before I could stop it, a barked declaration that made her blink in surprise at its force. “Oh,” she said. “Um . . . I don’t want to bother you.” “It’s not
23. FOURTEEN BIANCA Before you judge me, let me just say in my defense that my brain wasn’t firing on all cylinders on account of the sexual tension between Jackson and me in the kitchen, fright over how erratically he’d been driving, making him laugh (a beautiful, unexpected sound), having his big, warm hand settle on my shoulder in a gentle yet distinctly possessive grip, and seeing Trace standing on my front porch in the middle of the night. So yes. I kissed Jackson. Hard. That wasn’t the bad part. His lips were soft, his face was smooth, and he smelled even better up close. The bad part was that he didn’t kiss me back. When it became clear after several long moments that he wasn’t opening his mouth, and had in fact frozen stiff as a corpse left out in the snow, I withdrew a few inches and sheepishly looked at him. He said, “Did you just kiss me to try to make him jealous?” I said, “Um.” We stared at each other. I felt like every one of my nerve endings had been dipped in lighter fluid
24. BIANCA’S BLACKBERRY & BOURBON COBBLER Makes 8–10 servings 12 cups fresh blackberries ¾ cup raw sugar ¼ cup high-quality bourbon cooking spray ½ vanilla bean 1 cup granulated sugar 2 cups all-purpose flour 1 tablespoon plus 2 teaspoons baking powder ½ teaspoon table salt 1 teaspoon lemon zest 1½ cups milk 1 egg ¾ teaspoon vanilla extract 6 tablespoons butter, melted Preparation Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Combine blackberries, raw sugar, and bourbon in a large bowl. Transfer mixture to a 13² x 9² baking dish lightly greased with cooking spray. Split vanilla bean, and scrape seeds into granulated sugar, making sure vanilla bean seeds are distributed evenly. Sift together flour, baking powder, salt, and granulated sugar mixture into a large bowl. Stir in lemon zest. Whisk together milk, egg, and vanilla extract, and then stir into dry ingredients. Add melted butter and stir. Pour batter evenly over fruit. Place dish on a baking sheet. Bake at 350 degrees for 1 hour and 10 minutes or unti
25. FIFTEEN JACKSON I was barely listening to my father prattling into my ear as I stared out the window of the library into the sunny spring morning outside. My attention was preoccupied with thoughts of Bianca Hardwick. Sweet, sassy, fascinating Bianca, who spoke her mind and worried about her sick mother and knew how to make a man feel like a king with her kiss. No wonder her idiot ex was still sniffing around. In the four days since the benefit, I hadn’t been able to get her out of my mind. Even when I was sleeping. I’d woken up with a stiff cock every morning, tortured by dreams of her sweet mouth, how soft her eyes had looked after she kissed me, how her hand had curled so tightly into my hair. Every night I’d decided to go into her restaurant, only to change my mind on the drive there and turn around and go home. I’d said too much, acted too strangely, even threatened her ex with bodily injury. She must think I’m a lunatic. An unstable, depressed, hotheaded lunatic who’d be better o
26. SIXTEEN BIANCA Four days had passed since the benefit, and though I kept hoping Jackson would walk through the front door of my restaurant, he never did. Now I’m as liberated as the next girl, but one thing I will never, ever do is chase after a man. No matter how much of a fascinating puzzle he is. My mama always said the minute you make a move on a man is the minute you lose control, because then he knows he’s got you. “A woman worth her salt should be the hardest thing a man has to work for in his life, because then she’s a prize, not a gift,” she’d told me. “Anything you get for free is worth exactly what you paid for it: nothing.” I wasn’t looking for control in a relationship, but I knew she had a point because I’d thrown myself at Trace like I’d been shot from a cannon, and look where that got me. So I put Jackson Boudreaux out of my mind and focused my energy into taking care of Mama, running the restaurant, and trying to think of ways to make more money. Unfortunately I was co
27. SEVENTEEN BIANCA Astonished, I watched Jackson go until finally he disappeared into the night, melting into the darkness like a phantom. I went back into the restaurant in a daze, avoiding Eeny’s and Pepper’s excited questions with an order to get back to work that must have sounded appropriately sharp because they did what I asked, lickety-split. The rest of the night was a fog. I kept seeing Jackson’s face when he told me I was beautiful. I kept going over everything he said. I kept trying not to think about how a million dollars would change my life. And Mama’s. I kept wondering what woman would take him up on his offer. Because one would, I was certain of that. Somehow he’d find a woman who would be more than happy to take his money and give five years of her life in return. Lord, I could think of half a dozen off the top of my head. And then she’d be living in that icebox of a mansion and interacting with that sweet boy Cody and getting to see Jackson every day. Maybe even getting
28. EIGHTEEN JACKSON “Sir,” said Rayford, “you’re gonna wear out the rug.” “I’ll buy another one,” I growled, turning around and pacing back the direction I came. I couldn’t keep still, and Rayford nagging me about it wasn’t helping. The two of us were waiting inside the foyer for Bianca to arrive. Rayford was his usual tranquil self. I, however, felt like a nuclear reactor on the edge of a meltdown. I was going to get married. Bianca Hardwick was going to be my wife. At least that’s what it appeared would happen. She had called me yesterday and asked me if my offer was still on the table, and I nearly fell out of my chair. We’d agreed to meet today to discuss it further. I slept all of fifteen minutes last night. I spent an hour getting ready, showering, taming my hair, and obsessing over which clothes to wear. I even shaved again because I knew she liked it, even though the sight of those fucking scars on my face made me want to punch the mirror. She was due to arrive any minute, and the
29. FRENCH QUARTER BEIGNETS Makes about 3 dozen 1½ cups warm water ½ cup white sugar 1 envelope active dry yeast 2 eggs 1¼ teaspoon salt 1 cup evaporated milk 7 cups all-purpose flour ¼ cup shortening 1 quart vegetable oil 3 cups confectioners’ sugar Preparation Mix water, sugar, and yeast in large bowl and let sit for 10 minutes. In another bowl, beat the eggs, salt, and evaporated milk together. Stir egg mixture into yeast mixture. Add 3 cups of the flour to the egg/yeast mixture. Stir to combine. Add the shortening and mix. Continue to stir while slowly adding the remaining flour until all ingredients are well combined. Place dough on lightly floured surface and knead until smooth. Cover dough with plastic wrap or towel. Let rise at room temperature for 2–3 hours. Preheat oil in a deep fryer to 350 degrees. Roll the dough out to ¼² thickness and cut into 2² squares. Deep fry in batches, flipping constantly, until golden. (If beignets don’t pop up, oil isn’t hot enough.) Drain on paper t
30. NINETEEN BIANCA I left the same way I arrived: in a cab, by myself, fraught with anxiety. If my mother knew what I’d just agreed to, she’d slap me silly. She knew I’d gotten the twenty thousand from Jackson for the catering event, but admitting I’d be getting a million for marrying myself off to him so I could try to save her life was another situation altogether. Knowing there would be a nondisclosure in our contract was actually a relief. It meant I had a legal obligation to keep my mouth shut about my real reason for marrying the Beast. Now I just had to figure out what fake reason I was going to try to sell. “He’s so charming I couldn’t help but fall in love with him, Mama!” I muttered sarcastically to myself. The cabbie shot me a strange look in the rearview mirror, but I had more important things to worry about than his opinion. Before I left, Jackson told me that we had to be married and living together by his birthday, which was in just over two weeks. Two weeks. I had to think
31. TWENTY BIANCA The next afternoon, Jackson kept to his usual MO and arrived unannounced at the restaurant. It was five o’clock, an hour before the first reservations, five hours after the meat delivery was supposed to have arrived. The staff was eating their preservice meal together at the long table in the glassed-in private dining room. Meanwhile I was pacing, my new favorite form of exercise. When the door opened and I saw the long shadow fall across the dining room floor, I knew who it was without even turning around. Pepper’s excited squeal only confirmed it. I turned and found Jackson standing inside the door, staring at me. He was wearing faded jeans and his battered motorcycle jacket, with a white cotton shirt molded to his body so his abdomen muscles were on display like an ad for stacked bricks. He was not altogether unfortunate looking. I said, “Oh. Hello.” His brows quirked. He glanced at the gathering in the private dining room, fifteen people staring at us in open curiosit
32. TWENTY-ONE BIANCA This time it was me who froze in shock when our lips came together. It took him several long moments of gentle coercion with his tongue before I finally opened my mouth. When I did, it was on a soft groan that he stole when he inhaled. He was so big, and warm, and hard everywhere, except for his mouth, which was like cotton candy. I melted into it. He slid his thumb under my ear, and I shivered. His fingers pressed into my scalp. When he sank his teeth gently into my lower lip, lightning flashed through me. I fisted my hand into the scruff of his neck and pulled him closer. Suck, slide, nip, repeat, feel your pulse in all the hidden places in your body. This kiss was cashmere. It was luxuriant. It was decadent, unhurried, sweetly delicious, like stretching out on warm sand and drinking a mai tai. His scent was in my nose: pine and musk and something earthy and fresh, the way the woods smell after it rains. He made that masculine sound deep in his throat that I found w
33. DAVINA’S FAMOUS CREOLE JAMBALAYA Makes 8 servings ½ pound raw bacon, diced ½ pound fresh pork sausage, casings removed ½ pound andouille sausage, sliced 3 tablespoons butter 4 boneless chicken breasts, cut into 1-inch cubes 1 large yellow onion, diced 1 green bell pepper, diced 3 celery ribs, diced 3 garlic cloves, minced 2 cups long-grain white rice 1 teaspoon dried thyme 2 bay leaves ½ tablespoon chili powder 1½ tablespoons paprika 1 teaspoon ground cayenne pepper 1 teaspoon celery salt 1 can diced tomatoes 2 cups homemade (or organic) chicken stock 1 cup good-quality red wine 1½ pounds wild-caught raw shrimp, peeled and deveined 8 scallions, chopped fresh parsley Preparation In a large Dutch oven or high-sided pot, melt butter. Cook bacon and sausages for three to five minutes or until lightly browned, stirring frequently. Season chicken breasts with salt and pepper, add to pot, and cook additional 5 minutes or until browned. Add onion, bell pepper, celery, and garlic and cook until
34. TWENTY-TWO BIANCA After I hung up with Jackson, it took a solid fifteen minutes of dithering before I worked up the nerve to call my mother. She answered on the first ring. “Hi, Mama. How are you?” The gentle laugh that came over the line was reassuring. “I told you this morning I’m feeling good today, chère. You worry about me too much.” “That’s good.” After listening to the cavernous silence that followed, her mother-bear instincts kicked in. She said sharply, “Bianca? What’s the matter?” I stared at the kitten poster on the wall of my office until it blurred. “Uh . . .” Be brave. You’ve got this. Terrified, I cleared my throat. “There’s someone I’d like you to meet.” She didn’t even miss a beat. “Who, Jackson Boudreaux?” My jaw hit the desk. When I recovered my wits, I said, “How did you know?” “Sweetheart, I’ve known Eeny for going on fifty years. Did you think she wouldn’t call me when a man barged into your kitchen and announced you were getting married like you’d just won the Pu
35. TWENTY-THREE JACKSON Though she only lived a few blocks away from her mother, Bianca was in no shape to walk home. I wouldn’t have let her walk anyway, not when I had a car, but she had a blank, stunned look when she came out of the house that made me think she’d stumble aimlessly around the neighborhood for hours before finally realizing she was lost and lying down in the gutter for a nap. I’ve seen someone hit in the head with a shovel who had more presence of mind than she was displaying. I held the car door open for her. She inserted herself into the seat with the grace of a zombie, all jerking legs and stiff arms, the opposite of the way she normally moved. “I didn’t think having me meet your mother would be so traumatizing for you,” I said once I was seated behind the wheel. Bianca laughed. It was the noise a dog made when you stepped on its tail. “You asked my mother for permission to marry me,” she said. “I did.” She looked at me with eyes so wide the whites showed all around h
36. TWENTY-FOUR BIANCA I chose a corner bedroom that had windows on two walls and a built-in bookcase on a third that reached all the way to the vaulted ceiling. The room was about the same size as my entire house. “If you need to change the temperature, close the drapes, or turn the lights on and off, everything is operated from this screen.” Jackson made spokesmodel hands at a square touch screen on the wall by the door. “And if you’re not near the door, you can just speak your command aloud and Alexa will execute it.” “Who’s Alexa?” I asked, worried someone was about to burst out from under the bed. He pointed to a small black cylinder lurking on the bedside table. “It’s a voice assistant. It can also read your audiobooks, check the weather, and let you buy things online just by using your voice. The whole house is wired.” Rayford wasn’t kidding about Jackson’s technology obsession. I looked at the black cylinder with trepidation. “Will it watch me sleep?” Jackson chuckled. “No. But the
37. TWENTY-FIVE BIANCA At the airport we drove directly out to the jet waiting on the tarmac. While Rayford unloaded the luggage, we went through “security,” which consisted of a cheerful woman in a sweater vest and a badge glancing at our IDs. We were seated on the plane in less time than it usually takes to find parking for a commercial flight. This being rich business was certainly convenient. Stroking my hands along the arms of my luxurious bisque-colored chair, I said to Jackson, “Is this leather made from a special kind of cow who got daily massages and deep conditioning for his coat and ate a diet of macrobiotic lettuces while being read poetry by beautiful young women?” Sitting across from me in his own buttery soft chair, Jackson said, “I don’t know, but I’d like to be that cow.” “Me, too. I’ve never felt leather like this.” “Wait until you go to the bathroom.” I grimaced. “Is the toilet seat leather? That sounds unhygienic.” “No, the toilet seat is heated. It can also be cooled,
38. TWENTY-SIX BIANCA Picture a castle—the biggest and most elaborate castle you’ve seen in a movie. But not a forbidding, fortress-type castle with dungeons and moats and weird smells. Something elegant and romantic. Something with crenellated towers and cascading fountains and flocks of doves soaring through misty vales. Or any castle from any fairy tale where a princess waits for Prince Charming to ride up on his trusty white steed. Then triple the size, add in a herd of white-tailed deer prancing across a lush wilderness backdrop, a glittering lake filled with colored fountains and peacefully drifting swans, and an enormous orange moon cresting over the horizon in the distance, bathing everything in a warm amber glow, and you’ll have a small glimpse of the magic, majesty, and soul-piercing beauty of the place called Moonstar Ranch. I exhaled an awed breath that contained a lot of vowels. Then, panicked, I gripped Jackson’s arm. “Okay,” I said, sounding slightly hysterical. “I’ve respec
39. TWENTY-SEVEN JACKSON My cock had its own heartbeat. All the blood in my body had pooled in my groin. One lingering look from Bianca and I was twelve years old again, unable to control the sudden shocking flare of hormones that ignited a forest fire in my pants and left me speechless and sweating, and feeling guilty to boot. Judging by her flight of terror into the bathroom, I was pretty sure I’d just made a fatal mistake. “You fucking moron,” I said to the carpet as I leaned over the bed with my head in my hands. “You complete, colossal fuckwit.” I couldn’t even console myself with the memory that we’d already shared two kisses before I lost my mind and almost shoved her hand down my pants. Those kisses didn’t count. They didn’t mean anything, at least to her. The first was simply a ploy to make her ex jealous. The second was simply my infantile ego throwing a fit over being called nonsexual. Though both kisses were scorching hot—I thought so, anyway—it wasn’t like she wanted to kiss m
40. CREOLE OKRA GUMBO Makes 6 servings 4 tablespoons butter kosher salt 1 tablespoon cayenne pepper 1½ pounds boneless chicken thighs, skin removed, cut into pieces 4 ounces tasso ham, cut into 1² cubes 3 cloves garlic, minced 2 teaspoons thyme, minced 1 bay leaf 1 yellow onion, minced 1 red bell pepper, minced 1 tablespoon fresh parsley, minced 6 large fresh tomatoes, skin, core, and seeds removed 2 tablespoons tomato paste 6 cups chicken stock 1 pound okra, trimmed, sliced ½ inch thick 6 cups cooked white rice Preparation Melt butter in Dutch oven. Season chicken with salt and cayenne on both sides, cook for 10 minutes or until browned. Add tasso and garlic, cook for 5 minutes. Add thyme, bay leaf, onion, and bell pepper. Cook until browned, 5–10 minutes. Add parsley, tomatoes, and tomato paste. Cook 5 minutes or until softened. Add chicken stock, bring to a boil. Reduce heat to low and simmer until chicken is cooked through and gumbo has thickened, about 1 hour. Melt remaining butter in
41. TWENTY-EIGHT BIANCA When I emerged from the bathroom, Jackson was gone. A twinge of disappointment flattened me, but I perked up again when I saw what he’d left. A gorgeous red dress beckoned from the bed. It was sleeveless, with a belted waist and a flared skirt, the better to conceal my abominable childbearing hips and accentuate my waist. When I ran my fingers over the fabric, it shimmered like silk. Because it was silk. I looked at the tag on the neckline and made a loud, unladylike honking sound. How much had this cost? Probably less than the hunk of ice on my finger, I decided. All in all, getting married was turning out to be quite expensive for my future husband. Husband. My nerves went all catawampus. “Keep it together, Bianca,” I muttered, scooping up the dress. I headed into the bathroom to change and give myself a pep talk in front of the mirror. When finished with both, I had to admit I was looking rather well. My eyes sparkled. The dress fit like a dream, and the color fl
42. TWENTY-NINE BIANCA While Brig and I enjoyed a friendly chat about nothing of importance, Jackson spent the meal staring morosely down at his plate and guzzling goblet after bloody goblet of wine. I’d never seen him so miserable, which was saying something. His parents were seated at opposite ends of the long dining table. Jackson and I sat across from each other, separated by a forest of food platters, wine carafes, and fruit bowls. The candelabra flickered and dripped wax. The servants stood vigilant guard against the walls. It was like something straight out of a Pride and Prejudice adaptation. Not once did Jackson meet my eyes. “So you two met at your restaurant?” Brig said as a footman or whatever he was called leaned over me with a platter of fish. It oozed a creamy yellow sauce that had a disturbing resemblance to phlegm. I politely declined. “Yes, we did. Jackson came in to sample my spring menu, which was inspired by Boudreaux Bourbon. Didn’t he mention it?” I said when Brig lo
43. THIRTY BIANCA A few minutes passed before Jackson spoke again, minutes in which my heart ached and I fought back tears, thinking how it must have been for him all those years growing up, and ever since. How lonely he must’ve been. I thought now I understood why he was the way he was, so surly and standoffish, but I hadn’t heard the rest of his story. “Her name was Cricket.” That’s all he got out before he had to take another swallow of booze. He sank onto the sofa and stared blankly at the coffee table, his face white, his hands trembling, like a man suffering from shell shock. “Cricket Montgomery. The most beautiful girl in Kentucky, by anyone’s standards. We were in grade school together before I went away, so I’d known her for years. Known of her, I should say. Like everyone else, she adored my brother but never paid much attention to me, but a few years after I came back I ran into her at the public library in Louisville. I used to go there all the time to read and escape all the a
44. THIRTY-ONE JACKSON I knew I was dreaming because the warm, soft, unmistakable curve under my left palm was a woman’s hip. Dream woman had an incredibly sexy hip. She also smelled delicious and was warm as a little furnace against my chest. All of that helped to distract from the odd fact that I had a headache and my mouth tasted like bourbon. This was a really vivid dream. At least I was lying down comfortably, my head resting on a nice, fluffy pillow, my legs curled up behind dream woman’s legs. She sighed in sleepy pleasure when I pulled her tighter against me and nuzzled my face into her hair. When I slid my hand over her hip and gently cupped her ass, she sighed again, arching her back and rubbing against my crotch. This was a fucking awesome dream. She smelled like strawberry shampoo and sunshine. Like goodness. Like something I wanted to soak in . . . or taste. I found the nape of her neck with my lips and stroked my tongue over the delicate bump of her spine. She breathed the so
45. THIRTY-TWO BIANCA I’d seen Jackson’s scary side. I’d seen his hidden sweet side, too, and his suave side, and a dozen others. But I’d never seen him dirty. “Off!” he snarled, impatiently pulling my T-shirt over my head. He tossed it aside and it sailed across the room. He took a moment to stare down at me, his eyes black with lust, then he grabbed my sleep shorts and yanked them down my hips. Away they went, flung over to the dresser along with my panties. Kneeling between my spread legs, he made an animal noise as his gaze raked over me. Then his mouth was on my flesh. There. I cried out in shock. His mouth was so hot and wet, so unexpected. He dug his fingers into my hips and thrust his tongue deep inside me. I almost died from pleasure. “So fucking sweet. I’d knew you’d taste sweet.” He took a moment to growl, his breath fanning over my spread thighs. Then he went right back to business. I threaded my shaking fingers into the thick, soft mess of his hair because I needed to feel it.
46. THIRTY-THREE JACKSON We lay stunned and speechless, tangled in each other’s arms on the demolished bed like victims of a bombing. After a while, Bianca said in a tremulous voice, “Oh. My. That was . . .” “Perfect.” I stared at her in awe. “Incredible. Mind-blowing. We should get a trophy.” Blinking slowly, she smiled. It was a heartbreaking smile, a thing of such soul-lifting and astonishing beauty I felt like a man who’d just discovered religion. She was my religion. My north and south, my heaven and earth, the axis of rightness around which everything had suddenly aligned. For the first time in my life, all my polarized parts worked as one, humming happily along in harmony with the universe, finally understanding their place. I surrendered to the feeling completely and without hesitation, knowing that most people would never experience this. This blinding joy. This transcendent bliss. This seismic shift of focus from themselves to someone else that strangely and simultaneously gave b
47. BLOODY DIXIE Makes 4 servings 1 32-ounce bottle of tomato juice 2 ounces vodka 1 tablespoon freshly grated horseradish (or prepared) 1 tablespoon lemon juice 1 tablespoon hot sauce 1 tablespoon Worcestershire sauce dash of celery salt dash of pepper 4 slices cooked bacon 4 ribs celery Preparation Pour out ¼ cup tomato juice from bottle. Mix horseradish, lemon juice, hot sauce, Worcestershire, celery salt, and pepper into the remaining tomato juice in bottle and shake vigorously. Add ice to 4 highball glasses. Pour 2 ounces vodka over ice in each glass (or to your taste). Add tomato juice mix to fill. Stir, then garnish with bacon and celery.
48. THIRTY-FOUR BIANCA I was singing loudly and badly in the shower when the glass door opened and Jackson stepped in. “Don’t stop,” he said, amused. “I still have ten percent of my hearing left.” He was naked, calm, acting like we showered together every day of the week. He stepped in front of me, blocking the spray, and took the bar of soap from my limp hands as I ogled him. Jackson naked was one thing. Jackson naked and wet was something else altogether. Water worshipped his muscles, making all those gorgeous, golden bulges gleam and sparkle like he’d been photoshopped by a mad, horny housewife. He tipped his head back to wet his hair, and it was in Technicolor slo-mo, a sexy soundtrack playing in the background. I watched with my mouth hanging open as he slowly began to soap his chest. Even Trace hadn’t reached this level of physical perfection. I was showering with a Greek god. With art. How had I been so blind? Around the estrogen surge wreaking havoc in my nervous system, I said, “I
49. THIRTY-FIVE JACKSON I’ve suffered through my share of painful moments. Before now, I thought I knew all pain’s ugly faces, all the ways it can cripple and scar. But with one phone call I discovered that there’s no worse pain in the world than watching someone you love suffer and being powerless to make the suffering stop. I kissed her and held her and rocked her, I promised I’d do everything I could to help. Words. All of them useless. None of them changed a thing or broke through the new encasing of ice swiftly crystallizing around her. From the moment Bianca took that phone call, she went cold. All the life was sucked out of her. All the fire was extinguished. What was left was a shell-shocked husk. She didn’t even cry, which somehow made everything worse. “I need to get back as soon as possible,” she said hollowly, sitting on the floor with her back against the side of the bed. I crouched beside her, holding her clammy, limp hand, fighting a terrible slipping feeling inside me, like
50. THIRTY-SIX BIANCA It was raining when we touched down in New Orleans, the sky the same ugly lead gray as my soul. I didn’t know why I felt so numb. Shock, I suppose. In any case, I was grateful for the way all my senses were dulled, because I knew there were a thousand invisible knives of anguish hovering all around me, hungry for their moment to slash and draw blood. They’d get their moment, of that I was sure. But for now I was safe in a cocoon of soft white noise where nothing could reach me. Not even the torment in Jackson’s eyes. His engagement ring was a cold, heavy weight on my finger, a constant reminder of the bargain we’d made, and why. I couldn’t think about it. I couldn’t face any more harsh realities today. All I could do was put one foot in front of the other and keep breathing. When we arrived at Mama’s house, I could barely even do that. “I’ve got you,” said Jackson when I stepped out of the car and almost fell. He put his arm around my waist and half dragged, half carr
51. THIRTY-SEVEN BIANCA It was a bracing fifty-eight degrees, the sky a clear, brilliant blue above our heads. Eeny stood to my left, crying softly into a handkerchief. Jackson was to my right, stony as the inside of my heart. The church service was beautiful, attended by almost four hundred people. A gospel choir raised the rafters in song. Hoyt arranged for a jazz funeral procession from Saint Augustine’s to the cemetery. Two dozen musicians in black caps and white dress shirts slowly led the mourners on foot through the streets of New Orleans to the sound of hymns played on trumpets, drums, saxophones, and clarinets. At the grave site there were so many flower arrangements the bees came out in force, adding a gentle hum to underscore the priest’s final blessing of farewell. Then Mama’s casket was lowered into the ground, and it was done. Back at the house, the wake lasted for an eternity. Finally, well after nightfall, the house emptied, and I was left alone with my grief and a grim fia
52. THIRTY-EIGHT JACKSON Rayford quietly hung up the library phone. I didn’t look up from the paperwork I’d been perusing when I asked, “Who was that?” “Telemarketer,” he said. “Annual fund-raising for the local police.” Now I did look up, surprised. “I wonder why the chief didn’t call me himself? He knows I don’t like to talk to telemarketers.” I thought for a moment. “Didn’t they just have the police fund-raiser a few months ago?” Rayford’s expression was bland. “You write so many checks for fund-raisers, sir, I can never remember which one’s which.” From the corner of my desk he picked up my crystal decanter, tilted it over my empty glass, and smiled. “Refill?” I sighed heavily. I knew I’d been drinking too much lately, but it was the only thing getting me through the nights. “Yes. Thanks.” He poured me a generous measure, then turned to the young woman in a navy pantsuit and sensible shoes seated across the desk from me. “Miss Taylor, would you care for a drop?” Her mouth pinched. Whic
53. SLAP, SLAP, KISS COCKTAIL Makes 2 servings 1 ounce cognac 3 ounces vodka 2 ounces absinthe 1½ ounces gin 1 ounce blackberry liqueur Preparation Put all ingredients into a cocktail shaker with ice. Shake vigorously. Strain into two chilled cocktail glasses. Down the hatch, kiss your beloved, enjoy a very potent happily ever after.
54. ACKNOWLEDGMENTS This is the fourteenth novel I’ve published in five years. For some writers that number isn’t so remarkable, but for me it’s staggering because I’ve never sustained that kind of interest in anything except reading, napping, and a bath before bed. There are many people who have helped this slothful writer produce fourteen books in five years, and they deserve more than just a few flowery words in the back matter, but this is all you’re getting, guys. Maybe when I hit twenty I’ll send you a plaque or something, but probably not. (You could always frame this page and hang it on the wall?) In no particular order, here are the people who’ve helped me birth fourteen novels, and to whom I’d like to say THANK YOU: Jeff Bezos Amazon Publishing/Montlake Romance Maria Gomez, my current editor at Montlake Kelli Martin, my editor-between-editors at Montlake Eleni Caminis, my first editor at Montlake Melody Guy, my developmental editor who I would literally die without, who flagged t
55. ABOUT THE AUTHOR J.T. Geissinger is the author of more than a dozen novels of contemporary romance, paranormal romance, and romantic suspense. She is the recipient of the Prism Award for Best First Book and the Golden Quill Award for Best Paranormal/Urban Fantasy. She’s a two-time finalist for the RITA Award from the Romance Writers of America, and her works have been finalists in the Booksellers’ Best, National Readers’ Choice, and Daphne du Maurier Awards. Join her Facebook reader’s group—Geissinger’s Gang—to take part in weekly live chats and giveaways, find out more information about works in progress, get access to exclusive excerpts and contests, and receive advance reader copies of her upcoming releases. You can also check out her website, www.jtgeissinger.com, or follow her on Instagram @JTGeissingerauthor and on Twitter @JTGeissinger.